Jen told me I couldn’t come to the bar with her because I don’t have boobs yet. That stung. It’s not my fault I still have a child’s body, and she’s not even that much older than me.
At school, they call me “ironing board” because of my flat chest. The other day I stuffed cotton into one of Jen’s bras. I’d stolen it while she was out kissing Mario in his car. She thinks I don’t know about him, but I do. I followed her one night and saw it for myself—how they kiss with their mouths wide open, how he touches her. I don’t know if they’ve had sex, but I’m sure he wants to. I don’t like him. It’s not just that Jen stopped playing with me. There’s something about his greasy hair. People say he does hard drugs—not just joints, real ones.
When I wore the stuffed bra to school, Francesco shouted, “What did you stuff in there?” I realized I’d crumpled the cotton wrong. You could tell it was fake. I hid in the bathroom and cried, quietly. Not because of him—I don’t even care what he thinks—but because I missed Jen. That’s what hurts the most.
Last year we still watched Miss Italy together, secretly. Mom doesn’t want us watching TV. She says it kills creativity. Buying a TV was the first thing she did after leaving Dad. She said he wanted us to live in a “golden cage,” away from the world, up in the mountains in the old house he built for us—the one we’re selling now.
Mom left him because he was never home and wouldn’t let her work. She felt trapped. The only German in a tiny Italian town. I remember her crying at night, and nothing we did could make her happy.
Then she met Angela.
Angela is her only real friend. She isn’t like the other women in town who only talk about cooking and cleaning. Before she got sick, Angela traveled the world making documentaries about animals. She even wrote a book called Close Encounters with Four-Legged Creatures. Elephants, rats, lions—you name it.
She has Audrey Hepburn eyes and used to have thick Miss Italy hair. Now she’s bald from the chemo, but to me, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She lives in our old mountain house now. Mom says the fresh air helps.
At night, I sit on the windowsill and send her my prayers.
When Mom drives up to show the house to potential buyers, Jen and I watch TV. We love the glittery bikinis, the pool, the short Italian host judging women’s bodies. The losers get pushed in the water. We used to dream of being Miss Italy, mostly because the winners get to live in villas with pools.
Jen’s already beautiful, but I’m not there yet. It’s not just the boobs. My skin is pale and freckled. The kids at school say I look sick. Francesco asked if freckles were a German disease. I didn’t answer, but it hurt.
Mom says men will love my freckles someday. I wondered why she only said men. Why not everyone?
Once she asked me how much I thought she loved me. I said I didn’t know. She said I should count either the waves in the sea or the freckles on my body. But that’s impossible—they keep multiplying every summer. Sometimes I cover them with makeup, but it melts when I sweat. So I stay home, alone, while everyone else is outside.
When Jen and I played Miss Italy, she always let me win. She didn’t mind playing the judge, tying her hair in a tight ponytail and doing this nasal voice that made me laugh. She once made me a paper crown and a sash that said Miss Italy 1990. As soon as we heard Mom’s car, we’d switch off the TV and pretend we’d been making up stories all day.
Today, I saw Jen sitting on Mario’s lap outside the bar, right by the jukebox. It was hot. She wore a pink dress. I walked over to tell her Mom was looking for her, but Mario and his friends stared at me and told me to turn around so they could see my body. They said I might grow to be prettier than Jen but I still had “a long way to go.” One of them added, “She’s still a child.”
I rushed inside and pretended to buy something. I just wanted them to stop looking at me. I wanted Jen to come home.
When I finally told her Mom was waiting, one of Mario’s friends said I should come to Florence with them that night to buy weed. Jen laughed and took a drag from Mario’s cigarette. “She’s still a kid,” she said. “Mom would never allow that.”
We went anyway.
At first Jen said no, but I begged until she gave in. I wanted to prove I could keep up. That I wasn’t just a kid.
They played loud music, smoked the whole way. Mario stopped in a dark alley just outside Florence, where a man with a big belly sold him weed. I took one drag from a joint. At first it felt fine, then I got a headache. I felt like I was floating outside my body. Sad, heavy.
One of Mario’s friends thought it’d be funny to throw stones at the women working the curb. I looked at Jen, hoping she’d stop them. She turned away.
I couldn’t speak. My mouth felt stuffed with cotton.
Back home, I sat on the windowsill. I stared at the moon and thought of Angela and the house. Mom wants it sold—we need the money for lawyers. I still remember the four of us living up in the clouds. No TV. Just quiet. Now we live in a small apartment where everyone can see me the second I walk out the door.
There’s nowhere to hide.
Yesterday, Mom took me up to the mountain house while she showed it to a Swedish businessman. I stayed with Angela.
She wore one of her Indian dresses and wrapped a silk scarf around her bald head. Still beautiful.
We lay on the grass under the gazebo. She taught me about the flowers and herbs in the garden. She’s been researching their healing properties, trying to make teas that might help her.
She paints, too—watercolors of the moon and its cycles. We made one together.
Then it started raining. I had to pee but didn’t want to interrupt the showing, so I ran behind a bush.
That’s when I saw the blood in my underwear.
When I came back, Angela placed her hand on my belly and smiled. “I’m happy for you,” she said.
Then she closed her eyes and winced in pain. We lay there, silent, listening to the rain.
When Mom returned, smiling, she said we’d finally sold the house. I didn’t tell her anything.
Not about the rain.
Not about the blood.
Not about growing up.
Nora Jaenicke is a writer and award-winning filmmaker whose work explores memory, identity, and the strange beauty of transition. Her stories often emerge from the quiet intersections between grief, intimacy, and creative awakening. Her films have screened at over 45 international festivals and earned more than 30 awards. She is the founder of the Elba Film Festival and the Nostos Screenwriting Retreat.